


salt skin, tar blood

by beansprout



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, Witch AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:20:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29761626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beansprout/pseuds/beansprout
Summary: In the modern world where witches have online shops and take commissions, someone are still burning them.Noctis investigates. In order to stop the burning Scourge, he needs help from the one being that knows it best of all.
Kudos: 10





	salt skin, tar blood

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the (sadly defunct) Metanoira Moira zine - the Ardyn zine that we were so looking forward to.   
> This was more of an aesthetic piece to fit into the word limits. I was going to expand on it, but I kind of ran out of steam!  
> I hope you enjoy the concept and that it will inspire you!!

_Someone is burning the witches._

Ardyn first heard the dire news from the salt carried by the breeze, from words floating amidst seafoam. Flashes of images came shattering over the edge of his mind like black waves breaking against jagged cliffs. Behind the violent jumble, he picked up a faint call, a plea for help, and—

He rolled over in the indentation that his body had worn into the rock of his prison at Angelgard, gathered his hair about him like a blanket, and went back to sleep.

*

The breach of the island’s wards woke him, but it was the aura of his visitor that kept him interested. His guest came aboard a boat powered by the modern marvel of electricity, but the power in the boy’s veins was far more ancient. Ardyn read it as easily as a calling card: a pure heart troubled by grief, an excess of compassion. As Ardyn followed the boy’s footsteps across the rock-strewn landscape of Angelgard, he realized he no longer wanted to sleep.

This time, when the boy called, Ardyn allowed the gates to fling open and admit him.

The boy stood outlined by daylight, black hair tousled and matted with seaspray, nose wrinkling at the tang of rust. His eyes narrowed before adjusting to the gloom of the prison. Ardyn rose slowly, putting himself on display. His hair had never stopped growing during his long slumber, now it spilled wetly on the floor in dark red puddles. His skin was equal part pallid white and pitch-black, the oil-slick rainbow of the Scourge coating him in the impression of scales. When he smiled, he affected an illusion of glowing golden eyes and teeth filed down to sharp points, making himself like a creature of the depths, dangerous and wild. 

He meant it to be a test. Let this boy think twice before he made any request of Ardyn, dire as the situation may seem. 

In response to his theatrics, the boy only furrowed his eyebrows and _pouted_. “I called you,” he scolded, squatting down to prod at the shackles, which obligingly fell apart. “Were you just going to sleep through it?”

Not waiting for an answer, the boy brought a hand to his mouth and bit down on his own thumb. Blood welled up round and bright like a jewel, carrying his magic to flay the Scourge from Ardyn’s skin – at least on the surface. It left Ardyn naked and dirty, no more intimidating than a newborn babe, and honestly, a little dazed. 

“I know you can fix this. You’re coming with me.”

*

“Back in my day,” Ardyn started. Noctis was already rolling his eyes, but Ardyn didn’t let that deter him. “Back then, witches didn’t have _stores_. We wandered villages to ply our trade and hoped we don’t get caught.”

It was one thing to be told by the sea about the changes in the world. It was another thing altogether to set foot in a store with a sign boldly advertising witchcraft. Noctis told him witches that couldn’t afford the rent had _on-line stores_ , where customers could contact them for specific needs. They sent out talismans, poultices and potions _in the mail_ – no, nobody had brooms and familiars to make deliveries themselves. Nobody put a ward or a hex on their packages either.

“Pray tell, then,” Ardyn asked, “How do you know whether your packages are properly delivered?”

Noctis blinked at him. “Well… you stick a tracking label on them. Obviously.”

Ardyn threw all his lofty manners out the window and groaned. Witches had become fools. No wonder they were being burned in their own homes – oh, sorry, shops. And now it was Ardyn’s job to figure it all out.

The shop was a caricature of a witch’s lair, small and hopelessly cluttered. Empty cages with animal bones hung from the ceiling, dusty crystals crowded against books, spindly contraptions ticked in the dark. But there was real power from the charms in the display case, even if it was so faint Ardyn had to move closer to sense it properly. “Not much of a witch, this one,” he said with disdain, passing a hand over the countertop as the charms struggled to answer. 

Noctis made an absent noise. “Still no excuse to be burned to death,” he said. Ardyn scoffed.

Noctis had picked his way across the clutter with the ease of a cat on the prowl. He circled the greasy, charred spot on the floor, muttering to himself as he pulled out a glass ampoule from the unfathomable depth of his baggy clothing. The vessel flared green when he broke off one end; glittering stardust fluttered down to settle into the burnt wood. From the incantation he whispered, Ardyn guessed it was more of an inquiry than a purification. A beat of silence, the air seeming to still as it absorbed Noctis’ intention—

And then several things happened at once. 

Ardyn felt the Presence _surge_ towards them like a rogue wave, the pressure making his ears pop. Without thinking, he dove – pushing Noctis out of the way just as the burnt spot yawned open into a dark vortex. It looked as if an oil vein had been struck, but the column of darkness that burst from the ground was at the same time less substantial and terribly more present. It was pure malice made material, and the Scourge that ran barely contained under Ardyn’s skin sang in recognition. It was all Ardyn could do to throw himself over Noctis, covering him from the corruption as it overflowed.

“Ardyn!” Noctis cried out in alarm – even fear. Ardyn had half a mind to tease him. _Scared already?_ Or maybe, _Aw, you actually care, Noct._ He was annoyed to find that he couldn’t. His mouth had filled with mud-like Scourge, the primal malevolence swelling in his veins as if wanting to push Ardyn out of his own body. For a second he caught a glimpse of himself as Noctis was seeing him: not only drenched in Scourge, but as though he was melting into the darkness himself. His lungs were so full, spasming like a sponge being squeezed, pumping Scourge out of his nose and mouth in sputtering gushes. He tasted soot, oil, blood, and found he could not understand the terror in Noctis’ eyes. 

Ardyn tasted the past, and he couldn’t get enough of it. 

As soon as he’d thought of it, he was there. He was sprawling in a wheat field, the scenery perfectly banal but startling in its mere difference from the stormy skies and belligerent waters of Angelgard. The sky was blue, the air warm and ripe, the scent of green things floated in the air. Ardyn heard the grain-laden stalks whisper with a breeze. Before long, he felt the caress of white cotton, the fluttering hem of a dress brushing at his arm as a woman bent over him. 

Even with her back to the sun, her face shadowed, Ardyn still knew her like the bones inside his body. He knew the shape of her slim wrists and the halo of golden hair around her head; he knew the peculiar curl of her little finger around a stalk of wheat that she had just plucked, as she offered her hand to him. It was this last quirk that made his entire being – whichever part wasn’t steeped in Scourge – scream out in longing for her, but Ardyn pushed her away. 

_You’re dead. You’re dead, and I might as well have killed you myself._

When Ardyn next opened his eyes, hardly a moment had passed. He was still sprawled over Noctis, his cheek pressed again the floor board, and it made a sticky sucking noise when he lifted his face from the oily slime. Noctis was struggling to lift him, and Ardyn chuckled to hear the desperate slippery skids of the boy’s boots as he flailed and kicked. At the sound, Noctis tensed then relaxed all over before giving Ardyn a sloppy smack. 

“You’re heavy,” he accused, his tone peevish even if he was bone-white with fright. “I brought you here to _fix this_.” 

“Oh, I’m fixing it.” With a swipe of his thumb, Ardyn wiped off a speck of Scourge from Noctis’ cheek, pausing only to show Noctis how the black sank into his skin and disappeared. He gave a languorous smile as Noctis’ eyes widened at this small miracle, then pushed himself up on his feet to face the column of black oil.

On the hat stand next to him there was a fedora spelled to resist water, and it was the only thing in the shop not at all drenched in black. Almost absently Ardyn plucked it up and plopped it on the top of his head, laughing out loud at the inadequate defense it provided. Still, it was so appropriate, and Ardyn had given his word. He would fix this. Gripping the edge of the counter for balance, Ardyn steeled himself, anchoring his mind with the image of that single stalk of golden wheat. 

He tipped his new hat to the Presence, and beckoned.

The Starscourge wasn’t one to skirt such an invitation. It roared and turned, the force of the current hitting Ardyn square in the chest. It was still slimy and oily, but now it was hot, hot enough to bear a hole right through him. Ardyn understood how a lesser witch might have not been able to bear the brunt force of it, how these pampered young ones might have burst into flames on contact. But Ardyn had lived and suffered for a thousand years, and he had in his bones all the cold and damp of his prison at Angelgard, and the tang of sea salt drove away the taste of gasoline and blood. 

It wasn’t enough. As he faltered, Ardyn called to his mind the sensation of Noctis’ fingers upon his shackles, the way the boy had brushed and braided his hair – like Aera had done for him, all those years ago. He hadn’t been able to protect her, and he wasn’t sure the creature he was now was up to such a task as protecting another. But he still walked in their world, and if anything, he could protect it. He could protect this world where wheat fields bloomed golden, where witches sold their wares from kitschy, cushy stores. 

It took the blink of an eye or an hour. Either way, the roar of the Scourge quieted, the torrent narrowing down to a thread. With a snap of his hand Ardyn cut it off altogether, the last of it sinking into his skin, leaving behind no trace. Ardyn caught his breath as Noctis struggled to his feet, and when their eyes met, he knew they had made a pact. 

“I suppose you guessed right, Noct.” Ardyn rasped. “I can fix it. All I need to do is scoop up all the Scourge you can find and go back to rot at Angelgard with it inside me. Sucks to be me—but it will spare the rest of the world from us.”

Even jaded as he was, Ardyn managed to feel bitterness, and he wished there was a way to tell his own subconscious not to bother.

And Noctis continued to surprise him.

“No.” Noctis shook his head, ceremoniously placing his hand on Ardyn’s chest. It wasn’t until he was steadied that Ardyn realized he’d been swaying. Noctis’ blue eyes bore into him. “You know the Scourge intimately, yet you’ve proven incorruptible. You are a savior, just as you always were before the world turned on you.” 

It was not a prophecy, yet the utter certainty in Noctis’ tone left no room for debate. Ardyn savored each word he had spoken. Especially that one word, savior. It was a word to invite tragedy, to incur the wrath of the gods, and it’d been a long time since he’d been called that. 

Ardyn couldn’t tell if he was more eager to prove the boy wrong, or right.


End file.
